


Captured!

by magifrog



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, basically a really self indulgent concentration of falmer culture & biology headcanons, canon nonbinary character (they/them)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magifrog/pseuds/magifrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stolen by Nord treasure hunters, one of the elusive Falmer is brought to the surface and sold. Dealing with unfamiliar sensations and learning how to survive is a struggle for the kidnapped elf, but luckily they meet new acquaintances and form new skills, evolving from a frightened chaurus-tender to a full-fledged adventurer.<br/>(There are a lot of chapters, I know, but each is only around 600 words, so it's still a relatively easy read.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Light. The strange sensation hit their brain like a strange spell, the unfamiliar sensation of it filtering through their brain, slowing it.

They longed for the safety of their tent, the predictable smells and the welcoming smooth of the shell of a chaurus under their fingertips. Without them, the herd would be hungry. Feeding time was soon, they could tell by the ticking of their internal clock.

They didn’t have a name, or the concept of one, really. Everyone had a different scent, from the potion-mixer to the child-rearer to the food-gatherer. Even chaurus and skeever had their scents, the mix of mold and dirt and secretion that was distinctively _theirs_ , the uniqueness of their touch and action and rhythm as their skin or armor hummed.

The Falmer shut what eyes they had and imagined the hum of friend-chaurus, the ridged segments of its body a comfort as they ran thin fingers across the texture. As they were thrown into a small enclosure- the wind still blew cold against their face like that of a wide cavern- they latched tight onto the memory of soft fingers across their brow; the Falmer way of communicating safety, closeness. As harsh, loud sounds rung in their ears, they pretended it was the rhythmic chittering of a companion. Imagination was the only solace, the only way that they were able to endure the extreme change of the outside, of the upwalker brutality.

They knew things about the surface, of course, but had never had reason to leave- that was the job of the gatherers or the warriors. But the shapes they brought back were becoming familiar: the cold heat of snow, the firmness of iron, the many chaurus-like ridges of dry tree. The voices were what startled them, the way upwalkers howled and shouted and never seemed to cease, unlike the soft murmurings and clicking teeth of Falmer verbalization. They rarely spoke, only to share the impression of a noise or to yelp a warning. The enlightenment of touch; a series of taps, a long line traced along flat noses, the interlocking of limbs or digits; these were the preferred methods of communication. The more silent, the better hidden.

There were shapes in the stone, in the dirt, in the tent too: recipes, warnings, maps. The captured Falmer had often carved these in the thick yet unyielding surface of their armor. Even now, they were adorned with the grooves that only underdwellers could discern, recounting the shapes of the friend-chaurus or the birth-mother’s touch or simply a texture they had found pleasant to rub against. These were essential when the iron confines of the false-wall grew unpleasant, when the wood of the moving-earth splintered and wounded their fingers.

It was warmer by the second or third passing of the light (still a foreign whiteness permeating the skin of the Falmer’s eyesockets). There were new noises, the shrill screaming of strange things that seemed to zoom overhead and around the iron-cave, and old ones, the trickling of wall-water or roaring of wide-water. Some noises they could not understand, some noises aroused fear or hunger or an ache for their companions. The space around them was vast and unknowable as compared to the snug fit of a dirt tunnel or a warm tent. Only once had their herd-group been a place like that, in the echoing caverns of the underground capital, and now as it did then the sheer amount of space made them feel uneasy.

Upwalker voices were all around them as they entered a strange herd-group, chiming and chopping and clicking in unmanageable amounts. They started shaking, instinctual fear making them dry retch though their body had not met with skeever nor mushroom in days. A low sob of hopeless anticipation escaped their feeble vocal cords as the iron-cave was moved, the sensation only adding to the overstimulation their senses were bombarded with. The light before their dull eyes faded, and something akin to sleep took them as the motion of the iron-cave swung their body side to side.


	2. Chapter 2

A strange, soft noise. A soft touch. Something unfamiliar on top of them, somewhat like the few rough scraps of fabric the warriors had brought the herd-group to feel. Iron circled their wrists, and they felt it gingerly, making a noise of displeasure.

The noise was an upwalker noise, they realized, and felt for the relative safety of a surface, any surface, latching onto a wood wall.

“I won’t hurt you, I swear it.” The Falmer growled, knowing it would at least keep the danger at bay temporarily. The noises the upwalker made weren’t threatening, but the concept of deception was not foreign to their herd-group.

“Hey, hey. Here, take this.” Something like the noise of stone-on-stone grated against their ears, and they trembled, pressing tighter against the wall, but the scent of food was strong in their nostrils and their body ached with need. Feebly, they felt along the ground for the source of the smell, fingers grazing meat and teeth excitedly descending upon the meal before them.

The upwalker chuffed, feet slapping the stone of the floor and strange clankings and scrapings to the right of the Falmer. As the last of the tasty, strangely flavorful meat disappeared down their gullet, a new dish was set in front of them, something liquid and warm that they could lap at with their tongue like the tricklings of water down a stone wall.

A miraculous thing occurred in the Falmer’s eardrums. The upwalker’s voice moved in a melody, vibrations stirring a great curiosity in the silent listener’s heart. The firelight registering in the Falmer’s sore vision almost seemed to match the trilling of the upwalker’s sound, and the alien feeling the chirps and croons stirred reminded them of a cool hand skimming across their thin, pale skin.

“Do you like that? I’m flattered.” The Falmer made a quiet whining sound, unhappy that the wonderful memory had been cut short. After a moment’s silence, they returned to their bowl, slurping down the nutrients until their belly swelled.

“Did you know you have a name, hm? It’s Wiriwith, I picked it from an old text I found in the Arcaneum.” Unbeknownst to the newly dubbed Wiriwith, their buyer was smiling, pleased at the discovery of music soothing the savage beast. Her long skirt brushed the floor as she stooped to pick up the dishes, sending Wiriwith back to their spot on the wall. She continued chattering in the hopes that familiarity with the noise would give them more of a bond.

“I’m supposed to dissect you, but I don’t think I can anymore, seeing how much you remind me of your mer cousins. You’re just like a frightened child, if not for your teeth and claws.” The Falmer was relaxing, if only because they could discern easily their captor’s position as long as she kept talking. Any warrior would by now have escaped, a thought that shamed and terrified Wiriwith. They only knew the life and rhythm of the cattle and not the stunted, frantic motions of battle, so different from the reliable clacking of the friend-chaurus or the heartbeat of the skeever. But the world was smaller here, the echoes of the upwalker’s voice against wood walls provided a space for the mind of the Falmer to map, which was an improvement from the oxymoron of the small iron-cave and the vast expanse of the surface world.

“Wiriwith,” the researcher sung, writing her records enthusiastically. “Wiriwith, my triumph, my gift…”


	3. Chapter 3

The days passed, and with each Wiriwith grew less withdrawn. By the fifth day, they had stolen a knife from the table, using it to carve patterns in the furniture lest they forget the memories resting behind each symbol. Two circles, two nostrils, and a line between them, reminding them of their birth-mother drawing a line down their nose: a private word, a special communication. Fifteen lines for the segments of the friend-chaurus, nowhere near as smooth as the chitin of their companion, but a reminder nonetheless. And countless scoring over every surface, the type Wiriwith rubbed smooth with their sensitive fingers and murmured pleasantly to.

The upwalker seemed more pleased than afraid of these new developments. She would rub her fingers over the marks, Wiriwith could hear the meeting of skin against the wood of the table or the bedframes. These actions were as puzzling to the Falmer as theirs was to her, and the situation quickly changed from a captor and prisoner to two creatures studying each other, searching for bridges they might attempt to cross.

On the ninth day, Wiriwith hummed. It was an off-key, jovial little tune, a shy mimicry of something the upwalker had hummed the day before.

"Oh!"

They stopped humming, fearful.

"You made music! Music!" The upwalker copied Wiriwith's tune, repeating the word. "Music."

Sensing a pattern like the clacks and rhythms of chaurus, the Falmer paused to process the information. Then clumsily, Wiriwith copied the strange vocalization, then hummed.

" _Moo-zic_." An excited squeal, and then a tasty bit of dried meat was tossed their way.

 

"No! Gods, you... you have gone _too_  far."

"Please? I really need this favor."

"I'm a bard, not a scholar! What am I supposed to do with that- that thing?"

"It's- he? They- they're harmless, they only want to hear music. They've never heard the lute played, and if I were to do it they'd never want to hear it again."

"Mara's teeth- you know, you owe me big. I never thought I'd have graduated from the College to play for a beast, Svenna."

 


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Second Seed rolled around, Wiriwith's vocabulary had grown. They spoke quietly and in broken fragments, but could discern the difference between 'meet' and 'soop' and 'cheez' and regularly asked for the former.

Svenna had removed the chains from her housemate's wrists, which had opened up a new avenue of trust. Taken aback at first, she began to find patterns in the shapes Wiriwith traced on her face and arms.

They conversed often, and usually the Falmer tugged at her skirt when they preferred not to be verbal. Svenna knelt and closed her eyes, focusing on the touch. Two taps to the corner of the mouth- that meant drink. Wiriwith had figured out that repeating the motion on their own face after drinking helped the upwalker understand the symbol on her own face. It was simple if one was used to drinking from the dripping, sprinkling walls of Dwemer ruins- the taps reminiscent of droplets splatting against upturned mouths.

All these were recorded feverishly, and although Svenna had been content to leave the house for the sake of giving Wiriwith privacy at first, she rarely left now, having scrapped her biology endeavor for a dictionary of Falmer sign language.

One of the most exciting breakthroughs came one day as Wiriwith pulled her hand to the tabletop, letting her feel the symbol they had carved- two circles with a line above them. Not understanding, she furrowed her brow, feeling the symbol.

"What?" she asked. It was unsurprisingly one of the words they exchanged most.

Wiriwith pressed her fingers against one circle, then pressed their finger against one of her eyelids. Svenna grimaced, but gave the other a "Yes." Circle meant eye.

Then the mer made her feel the entire symbol again, and again she said "Yes." The symbol was a face, fairly simple.

Unexpectedly, her fingers were guided down the horizontal line, then pale, clammy fingers drew a line across her brown, freckled forehead. It was hard to process, but as Wiriwith showed her more symbols, she gathered that some were a written form of the symbols that the Falmer used through touch, although others had no discernible meaning.

More and more, she found herself wandering the house with her eyes shut, experiencing the world the way her companion did. More and more, Wiriwith made use of surface inventions, wrapping themself in blankets and shawls, sprinkling herbs on their meals, learning to carve pieces of wood into portable symbols that Svenna attached to their clothing with a braided rope belt. Life was interesting and idyllic, although the mer longed for their herd-group and woke up tasting the familiar flavor of raw skeever.

 

Then the strangers came to visit. All trace of the confident, curious Wiriwith there had been retreated into the primal haze of fear.

"Please, please come out. Please, Wiriwith."

"It's but a dumb beast, Svenna, we can't accept your research as credible unless you can show us firsthand."

"I swear, I've recorded everything, I can tell you what almost every symbol means-"

"It could be fabricated," said the taller upwalker, in a tone Wiriwith did not like. "You could be a madwoman, leaving your pet unchained, drawing symbols everywhere-"

"Enough, Rowan. It isn't as if the subject has harmed her yet, we are merely looking for proof-"

"Proof be damned! You've read the literature. If we allow them to rejoin society, we are allowing another barbaric culture like the Forsworn to exist within Skyrim, and possibly to spread to all of Tamriel."

"Would that be so bad? They are your cousins! This one is smarter even than you-" A _slap_ , and a thump as Svenna hit the edge of the table. If Wiriwith had only been born a warrior- but they slunk deeper under the bed, shaking violently like a leaf in a great gust of wind.

In the next few minutes, the odor of brimstone and spices disappeared, and a familiar voice alerted them to Svenna leaning down to pull them out from under the bed.

"I'm sorry." Though the Falmer didn't know the words, the soft, sad tone was enough. In turn, they drew a line of comfort across Svenna's face, and felt the hot breath of a sigh. "We'll have to move, but I don't know where we'll go. I shouldn't have- I just-"

Shaking shoulders, Wiriwith felt, and though their species lacked tear ducts the croaks and sobs of Svenna's voice were not an unfamiliar sign of sorrow.


End file.
